


A Mouth Full of Hell, and a Chest Full of Hell Yes

by wordpunk



Category: Professor Marston and the Wonder Women (2017)
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordpunk/pseuds/wordpunk
Summary: Elizabeth tosses her invitation to an annoying Seven Sisters reunion, but Olive insists she attend. Once there, Olive learns much more about Elizabeth's past than the intricacies of collegiate society.





	1. The Invitation

Olive had effortlessly fallen into a morning routine with the Marstons: stop by to deliver inter-campus mail, have a quick chat, then ease her way off to class.

Her Advanced Anthropology professor, Dr. Herrman, often wore stuffy suits, covered in what appeared to be a thin layer of dust. The early light would shine dull upon his shoulders, making his lecture feel all the more drab. Olive was convinced, if one could just give him a brisk pat on the back, an era’s-worth of dirt might emanate from those thick, woolen threads. This wasn’t the most inspiring way to start her Wednesday, but seeing the Marstons made up for it.

As she strolled down the hall and turned toward the psychology department, Olive could already smell a fresh pot of coffee. _Must be an early morning…or a late night,_ she mused, holding a stack of folders and envelopes close to her chest. She had noticed a beautiful, pearlescent stationery in amongst the recycled manila sleeves. Perhaps correspondence from an investor in the Marstons’ studies? Or an ostentatious relative….

Elizabeth sat at her desk, poring over her husband’s nearly indiscernible notes from a prior experiment. It looked as if the man had fallen asleep recording data. She traced William’s wiggling lines and copied her neat, respectable numbers onto a crisp page. Her hair had been spruced up in a rush back to their campus cottage for clean clothes and a bit of breakfast, and it now fell forward across her freckled cheekbones. She caught the glare from one of Olive’s bracelets before seeing the rest of her research assistant arrive.

“Hey, you.” said Elizabeth, rather sultry for half past eight, but the lowness in her voice was more from exhaustion.

“What?” William grunted. He was bent over and away from them, puffing on a cigarette and screwing with the detector’s pen alignment.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, mainly for Olive’s sake.

“Good morning,” said Olive, taking in the warm, sunlit laboratory. There was something about a room with the Marstons inside. Those two had the power to thaw even the coldest of Radcliffe’s lecture halls. The walls seemed to lean in and listen, and the fragrant marriage of William’s turkish cigarettes and Elizabeth’s Sous le Vent made Olive wish very much she had nothing to do and nowhere to be but with them.

“Ah, Olive!” William exclaimed, still concentrating on the chart roll. A tiny bit of tongue was stuck out between his lips.

“He’s…preoccupied with the arm.”

“Amplitudes, again?”

“Precisely,” Elizabeth smiled, and blinked quickly. “He’s been fiddling with it all morning.”

Olive leaned over to inspect the mechanism, spying the snag almost immediately. “It appears as if it’s less to do with the pen’s sensitivity and more with mapping the base pressure of the pneumograph.”

Elizabeth looked up from her work, grinning.  
“What did I tell you?” she jingled.

Without straightening, William looked up at Olive, meeting her gaze with just the slightest trace of astonishment. The energy of their proximity could have lit half the lamps on campus.

“Wait for the girl…” he took a contented drag and smiled, “she’ll have it in no time.”

The Marstons remained in the moment, taking in their luck, the charm of it all.

Elizabeth was the first to break from their collective reverie. “So any news worth telling?”

Olive set their mail down in a wooden inbox atop one of the lab tables. “Brant has acquired tickets to an E.M. Statler event. He thinks it will help with my application to Columbia.”

“The hotelier? Isn't he the reason why half of Boston Common is torn apart?” inquired William.

“How on earth is a man determined to transform quaint lodging into a profitable industry going to admit you to a university?”

“Apparently, he’s an enthusiastic donor.”

Elizabeth’s expression loosened into a reluctant acquiescence. “Ah, money.” She pulled a cigarette from her pack in the cupboard.

William leaned in to offer her a light. “It couldn’t hurt to rub elbows with a few movers and shakers in the city. Surely, reporters and other members of the trades will be in attendance. They could help.”

“It’s not that, Bill. It’s the-” Elizabeth searched for an appropriate evaluation of Brant’s brazen attempts at controlling nearly every aspect of Olive’s life, without insulting Olive, “the gesture of it all. She shouldn’t have to make further efforts to seek admission past her bloody thesis statement.”

“And your recommendation,” added Olive, wanting for a nip of coffee, but only finding Elizabeth’s vacant cup. She swirled the last, cool dregs, contemplating.

“Yes, and a hearty recommendation from a few academics,” William concluded, adjusting his necktie in pride. He noticed Olive, and moved to grab the carafe. It was sitting empty, carefully clamped above a burning Bunsen.

“Speaking of,“ Elizabeth intoned, sifting through the morning mail. She pulled a stiff, new folder from the stack and unwound its seal. “It appears as if my application is under review, again.”

“That’s great!” said Olive.

“Truthfully, the whole thing drives me bat-shit,” Elizabeth said flatly, cigarette hanging loose from her lips. She came across the fancy envelope and flung it directly into the bin.

“Dear, you’ve gone and drank the whole pot.”

“That explains why I feel giddy,” she sat down, determined to ignore the rest of the post by resuming work.

Meanwhile, Olive bent forward to fish out the reject, “I couldn’t help but notice how quickly you disposed of this thing.”

“I know what it is, and I don’t want it.”

“Well, it’s not going to bite is it?” William pressed, measuring out another mass of coffee. Olive flipped over the envelope to find a wax seal imprinted with a delicate daisy. “Seven Sisters?”

“Mhmm,” said Elizabeth, humoring the younger woman.

Olive took a pencil from Elizabeth’s desk and slid the pointed end beneath a fold. She extracted a gorgeous, powder blue invitation. William came to read over her shoulder and stole the chance to place a warm kiss behind Olive’s ear. It made her shiver.

“Bill-“ started Elizabeth, but Olive spoke over her.

“The merry ladies of the illustrious Daisy Chain Beau Monde cordially request your presence at their annual social.”

Elizabeth looked up at Olive, “Well, you’ve read it now. Are you happy?”

“I feel like my aunt has been to one of these,” said Olive.

“I’ve well-nigh fallen asleep at every one. Must have missed her.”

“Oh, come on, Elizabeth. How bored could you be with such a mass of refined, female intellect?” William asked. He tucked a twig of Olive’s hair behind her ear and kissed her again.

“Would you two— Because it’s all tedium and posturing. Their intellect, as you say, seems to leak directly from their skulls into their teacups at these things. Regardless of stature, they end up behaving like a herd of disagreeable, simpering dilettantes!”

“But you can’t avoid old friends forever.”

Elizabeth scoffed, crossing her arms.

William continued, “Why, you called our last Social Sciences event ‘a lark’.” He began another flask of water to boil.

“I can entertain a few hypocritical head cases, but an entire group of women willing to drop their wit in order to embody the utmost domestic ideals of the day? It’s bullshit.” Elizabeth finished, taking one hell of a long drag on her cigarette.

 _That’s it,_ thought Olive. She could see it through Elizabeth’s eyes: her sharp, unwavering independence, championed by William and his respect… alone amongst the frightened, shape-shifters of her so-called feminist cohort.

“What if I came with you?” Olive offered, walking up to Elizabeth and untangling her arms.

Elizabeth recoiled, “Why would I subject you to such a thing?”

“You’re not subjecting me. We could play it off as an experiment. Subject them to us.”

“You’ll get bored.”

Olive pulled Elizabeth close. “I learned to manage with the diluted chatter of a convent; I can survive one night with the Beau Monde.”

Elizabeth laughed, “We can dazzle them with our ambition and gall.” The women embraced.

William met Elizabeth's eyes with nod. He seemed to say, _“She gets done what I cannot.”_

“So you’ll go?” he asked, beginning to smile.

“I will…,” said Elizabeth.

Olive celebrated by giving her a peck on the cheek. She skipped over to the carafe to pour herself a cup.

“But I refuse to embellish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big heaping thanks to M for the extra pair of eyes.


	2. Don't Go Far Off

The next few weeks passed by agonizingly slow.

Elizabeth lost most of her free time to formal luncheons, faculty meetings, and interviews defending her Plan of Study. Without her, and with the end of winter term looming, William became hideously disorganized.  

Olive spent her office hours compiling reports and cross-checking old notes. She noticed her happiness had dipped in the absence of Elizabeth, though William had been kind in taking breaks with Olive to discuss classwork and exchange a kiss…or three.

Filing papers one day, she came across a crinkled set of pages Elizabeth had written weeks before:

_“The damn thing needs stronger counter measures, otherwise it’s pseudoscience. Propose an outside study!”_

She smiled, thinking back to Professor Marston’s response of “Babe Ruth” being the President and betraying the new machine. It had been so fascinatingly frustrating to discover what made the lie detector ‘tick’ and at the same time their own desires. Olive gathered the cleverness of the Marstons, married with their own tendencies to poke and prod a project until the entire effort falls apart, had finally become a detriment to their progress.

Those thoughts carried Olive into Advanced Literature that afternoon, and she daydreamed of Elizabeth paying her a visit at the A.O. house. Perhaps she missed Olive, too, and would come inside even if to simply insult the pledges, turn around, and leave. Maybe Olive would let her hand fall near Elizabeth’s as they were saying goodbye, softly grazing her palm with a finger. They would at least have a morsel of time together….

Something about Expressionism and New York broke Olive out of her reverie. She turned to the final page in her notebook and scribbled a message:

**_In class._ **

**_I understand Sophie Treadwell is writing a new play exploring the expectations of society on women. Barrymore be damned._ **

**_Craving your company. -ob_ **

She slipped the note under Elizabeth’s coffee cup the next morning.

* * * 

For a while, Olive wasn’t sure if Elizabeth had noticed or really cared for the note.

She started to feel childish, reckless with her own privacy until one day, a long, thin strip of litmus paper appeared, coiled upon Olive’s workload in their office.

**_My coffee cup misses your lips dearly._ ** **_As do I._ ** **_X._ **

Elizabeth laid in bed next to William, scrutinizing a ceiling laced with shadows and patchwork moonlight. If she wasn’t retracing her Plan over and over again - forwards, backwards, out of order, so as to find any holes before the tyrants of Harvard’s board might, her thoughts were being infiltrated by the soft, golden curls of Olive’s hair. The strands had a kiss of bronze Elizabeth could only retrace back to Italian sculpture.

She’d gone just a few days without seeing Olive, but was becoming rather pissed at how incapacitated it made her feel. Had she ever been through this with Bill? She couldn’t recall spending more than a week’s time away from the softly snoring man beside her.  

That night, her dreams swirled with reds and yellows making her sick to her stomach. Flashes of past rejections and arguments sprang up, furrowing her brow and stoking a headache that manifested in a morning full of coffee and cursing. Elizabeth loved a splash of citrus with her evening rye, but she knew all too well how it could ruin her sleep. She started wishing it could all be over, the waiting, the ass-kissing, and she could just relax back into her old routine. However, the very thought of being stuck again tied her up in knots.

 * * * 

Olive attended the Statler social with Brant the following weekend. Certainly, the whole thing was shiny, lovely, entertaining even, yet she yearned for Elizabeth’s presence all the more. My, how they could have contended those hifalutin socialites!

She returned with a few connections and tea times feeling less like she had earned them by her own appeal and more by Brant in his near desperate attempts to hobnob with the hoi polloi.

On Monday, Elizabeth and Olive passed each other briefly in the courtyard linking the science buildings. Elizabeth looked preoccupied with a list, until her eyes landed on her assistant. With new color in her cheeks, she shared the slyest of winks as their bodies passed. 

It was enough to make Olive stop near the closest tree and retrieve her scattered thoughts. Something Elizabeth mentioned early in their friendship kept running laps in her mind.

_“He’s never boring.”_

Olive had to admit, William’s classes were much more engaging than others she had taken at Radcliffe. The hang up nevertheless wasn’t with academia, but with Brant. Traversing the well-to-dos at Statler’s social wasn’t difficult for Olive. The problem lied within their absolutely dull conversations, nearly putting her into a forced coma. She longed for the company of true intellectuals. Around the Marstons and some of her sorority sisters, Olive found a pith of words unmanned by the generation comfortably nesting above her own. With them, she could never fatigue.

After spending the lunch hour studying with her sisters, Olive dropped by the Marstons’ office to find William alone on the phone, arguing with another faculty member.

“I didn’t include it in the curriculum because I believe the subject is antiquated and unnecessary.”

She gave William a peck on the cheek, letting her fingers linger in his coarse hair.

“Yes, I am aware of the implications. I’ve saved them a great deal of time.”

He smiled and stroked her arm gently; an understanding of two passionate people far from tending to any other fires at the moment than their own.

“You’re underestimating an entire class of brilliant women who already display the prerequisite knowledge to properly evaluate and dismantle complex modalities. … Because they experience them, too, Richard!” 

Reckoning the call would last well into the afternoon, Olive decided to leave her next message for Elizabeth beneath a fresh pack of cigarettes in the flammables cabinet. 

* * * 

Elizabeth found Bill later, necktie askew, bourbon drained, and fast asleep using a pile of statistical volumes for a pillow. After a heavy sigh and an irritated look at her mess of a calendar, Elizabeth sought out her own vices. She read Olive’s note, primly written upon the back of a fresh calling card, and chuckled.

**_Statler was sick. Met a few rascals! …and Blanche Knopf._ **

**_Felt your warmth in every French 75. - ob_ **

She grew still, reading and re-reading the last line. Olive Byrne possessed a true power. It surprised Elizabeth at their first trip to the speakeasy and continued to fascinate, sending pulses of adrenaline throughout her body whenever they locked eyes. She felt vulnerable, flung back to her undergrad days of being unable to maintain eye contact with other female students she found attractive or intriguing.  

Bill had always been there in her life, a supportive, soft flannel of a man with an emotional intelligence unmatched by the balance of her male peers. Elizabeth had grown comfortable in their marriage. She relaxed into her own, sensing no need to filter or curb her thoughts and whims. Olive unhinged that equilibrium. Walls and lines of defense Elizabeth had long walked away from were suddenly directly in her way again, challenging her true feelings.

She mused Olive herself could be likened to a sweet glass of champagne, tickling the senses and draining all tension from her aching shoulders. If it was one thing Elizabeth had failed to manage over the period of her graduate studies, it was where her stress liked to coil up and burn in her body.

When he awoke that night, William found Elizabeth reading over her Plan of Study for the thousandth time. They walked slowly back to their cottage, spent from the hell the last month had wrought.

* * *

Just days before the Beau Monde social was to take place, Olive entered the office to find both William and Elizabeth cracking up over a newspaper.

As it turns out, the comics of Buster Brown transformed the Marstons into complete children.

Elizabeth had tears in her eyes from laughing, “He buys six pairs of pants! On his family’s dime, mind you. If that isn’t the seed of rebellion and stirring capitalism!” 

“But it seems he’s…Busted every last one!” William crowed. They collapsed into giggles again.

* * *

Outside of class on Friday, Elizabeth brought Olive an enormous tome.

“Read this. We’ll need a comprehensive report by Monday,” she stated, flatly, breaking all intimate tension from Olive. The other students exited the room in a rush. Assuming she would spend the rest of her day with the Marstons fussing over soiree strategies, Olive grew flush at the thought of being bombarded with such idle work instead. 

She huffed her way back to the sorority house, only to find the comic clipping from earlier tucked into Chapter 17.

**_Kidding._ **

**_Blanche! What a thrill._ **

**_Come to our cottage around 5. Bring those ridiculous calling cards I’m sure Brant had custom made for you._ **

**_X._ **

Seeing Elizabeth’s one raised eyebrow perfectly in her mind, Olive grinned. The lawyer gave herself away more often than she realized; her jealousy and disdain of Brant being an extreme case. Olive walked now at a brisk pace. It was finally time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for such a delay. It took me a bit to realize this should be four chapters (instead of three), and that I needed more time with Elizabeth.


End file.
